Mechanical (10 page)

“Okay.” I went on scanning the road for the
van, although I was silently pleased he had joined me. Another
roller coaster feeling surged through me and I couldn’t help but
cringe at the thought that I was behaving like just another
boy-crazy, teenage girl.

“So what do you think, you’re gonna do your
English assignment on?” he asked, apparently unaware of my
distress.

“Ugh. I haven’t even thought about it,” I
replied, feeling myself relax with the topic. “What about you?”

“Dunno yet. I could help you think of
something if you want.”

I considered his offer. I had no idea what to
write about and Michael actually could be of some help. I looked
into his eyes. “Okay, thanks.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes and
soon the parking lot was empty. Still no sign of the van.

“I could just give you a ride,” Michael
offered again.

“Well...I guess...” I said, giving one last
glance to the road before turning in his direction.

“Good.” He stood, offering me his hand.

I let him pull me up, although the feeling of
his hand on mine was strange, sending a shiver up my arm. We walked
across the parking lot to his car and I climbed in the passenger
side. “Same place right?” he asked and I nodded. He started the car
and we were on our way.

“So, any ideas for my paper?” I asked him,
feeling that this subject was overused, but thinking of no
alternative conversation starter.

“Hmmm ... well, have you taken Miss Clark’s
advice?”

I turned away. Ugh. Had I ever. I had spent
hours staring into my eyes through a mirror and nothing could
convince me there was anything there worthy to be called a soul.
And how could I write something from deep within my soul, as Miss
Clark had put it, if I didn’t even have one in the first place?

“Come on, you’re going to be a writer
someday, remember? High school English class has to be a piece of
cake,” Michael said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I laughed. “You were the one who picked that
certain career for me.”

“Well then, what do you really want to
be?”

I paused. What did I want to be? Did it even
matter? There was a huge barrier between what I wanted and what I
was forced to accept. Would wishing for something I could never
have just be a waste of my time? But being a writer did sound like
fun...

“I’d like to be a writer,” I confessed.

Michael beamed proudly. “See? I knew it.”

“But that still doesn’t solve my problem for
the paper,” I replied, staring out the window at the sidewalk
whizzing by. “I tried to take Miss Clark’s advice, about the soul
thing, but I don’t know if there’s anything there to write about.”
I barely whispered the last part.

“Sure there is,” Michael told me. “What do
you
really
care about? That’s all she wants us to write
about. I don’t know ... something you really want, something you’re
feeling, something you admire ... stuff like that.”

Suddenly, I was filled with a sensation of
happiness. I wasn’t sure why. All of a sudden, I wanted to smile at
him, talk to him, just sit in his car. I liked talking to him; I
liked how he talked to me. I liked how he encouraged me and I liked
his smile. And he did have really nice eyes...and hair...

Oh gosh. What was wrong with me? This was not
normal. Was it? I was a machine. Everything inside of me worked
rationally. Right? I felt my old self slipping away and I wasn’t
sure whether I was supposed to hold onto her or let her go.

“Drew?” Michael asked, pulling me out of my
frenzied thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Where do I turn again?”

I pointed at the road sign and Michael took
the turn.

“So, what are you writing your paper on?” I
asked him.

He shrugged.

“Well how can you offer to help me think
something up when you can’t even think of something for
yourself?”

He gave me a guilty look. “Dunno. Maybe
‘cause helping you is much more fun.”

Just then I noticed we were only a few blocks
from the Institution. “Stop here,” I said quickly.

He stopped the car. “Which house is yours?”
he asked.

“I can walk from here,” I told him.

“No, its fine, I can drive you,” he urged and
started to drive forward again. I knew he would see the Institution
if he drove only a few more seconds and I panicked.

“Stop,” I said, and when he didn’t react I
opened my door.

Michael slammed on the brakes. “What are you
doing?”

“I need to get out here,” I said, climbing
out before he could continue driving.

“Um ... okay,” he replied uncertainly.

I grabbed my bag. “Thanks so much for the
ride.”

He looked confused. “See you at school.”

“Bye.” I stepped back and watched him drive
away.

I walked up to the Institution, but as soon
as I passed through the doors I was confronted by a man I
recognized to be David, my driver. “Where were you?” he
demanded.

“Where were
you?
”

“Okay, I was a little late,” he admitted.

“More like thirty minutes. Someone offered me
a ride so I took it. I didn’t know where you were.”

“Fine. But you still need to tell me your
observations,” he said, beckoning for me to follow him.

We reached the recording device lying on the
table and I began to recount my day.

Afterwards, I hurried into my room to work on
the paper. I sat on my bed thinking for nearly twenty minutes,
wondering what to do. What Michael had suggested had helped, but I
was still unsure. What did I care about? What did I truly care
about? I cared about my friends at the Institution. I cared about
my friends at school. I cared about things that happened to me and
what I would do every day. But something else came to my mind. It
seemed so small, so simple. So insignificant. It was nothing more
than a dream. Michael had talked to me about it like it was
something he knew was truly possible, but I knew better. He made it
sound so easy, so fun. It was a chance at a real life.

I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to express
what I was feeling, not just be told what I was, what I was to do,
and the way things were. I wanted to write, and I wanted people to
listen. I wanted to pour out my heart and soul into words on a
piece of paper. I wanted to express my soul in writing. In a way, I
wanted to prove that there was a soul inside of me; that I wasn’t
just a metal shell filled with wires and databases and programs. I
wanted to prove I was real, to others and to myself.

That’s what I truly cared about.

Chapter Eighteen

“Drew, you are so lucky,” Hailey proclaimed,
setting her lunch tray down at our table. “That is so cool to get
the highest grade on that English paper.”

I moved over, making room for her.

“You always have good grades. So unfair.”
Jessica stuck her tongue out at me playfully. “How do you do
it?”

I smiled self-consciously. “I don’t
know.”

Caroline raised her brows. “Miss Perfect,”
she said teasingly.

“Oh, I know, right?” Jessica said to
Caroline, then to me, “Look at you, good grades and gorgeous. How’d
you end up so lucky?”

I chewed my lip, aware that my face was
heating up. “I am not gorgeous,” I protested, thinking of Yvonne.
Yvonne was the lucky one, not I. Whenever I stood next to her, I
felt like a wilting flower next to a tall, dark, rose. Her
mysterious beauty was probably what gave her the confidence that I
wish I had.

“Oh puh-leez, Drew.” Jessica said. “Don’t
deny it. You’ve got what any girl would kill for—long legs, perfect
hair, blue eyes.”

“Pfft,” I said to her, starting to become
embarrassed.

“Really. It’s true,” Jessica said knowingly.
“I happen to know there are a lot of guys here who like you,
including my brother.”

This caught my attention. “How do you know?”
I tried hard to make it sound carefree as I busied myself opening
my juice box, surprisingly a lot easier said than done.

“By the way he acts around you and talks
about you
all the time
.”

“That means he likes me?”

Jessica giggled. “He really likes you. A
lot.”

I started to blush again.

“I really think he wants to ask you out.”

The forkful of food I was about to eat
stopped a few inches away from my mouth. “Ask me out?”

“I think he’s going to, soon.”

“As in...?” I asked again.

“You know, a date.”

“Oh,” was all I could think to say, lowering
the fork back to my plate. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Well, what do I say to something like that?
I mean if he really does um...ask me out?” I stared at her
uncertainly, confused about the strange feelings forming in my
stomach.

“Say yes, if you like him,” Hailey piped up.
“I mean, he’s a good catch. He’s
hot
.”

Jessica snorted. “Yeah, right. You should see
him at home.”

“You only think that because he’s your
brother,” Caroline answered, giggling.

“Well, you would feel the same way if you
knew him the way I do.” Jessica made a face and we all laughed.

“But anyways, Drew, it’s your call. Just say
whatever, depending on whether you like him or not,” Hailey told
me, taking a bite of her apple.

I swallowed my food, not knowing what to say.
It was kind of exciting to think that Michael might ask me out, but
at the same time, the idea made me nervous and I wondered what my
answer would be if he really went through with it.

Chapter Nineteen

I saw something—my math book—flying towards
me and I quickly reached out and grabbed it as it hurled by, mere
inches from my face.

“You left it here this morning,” Yvonne
stated from across the room.

I nodded. “Yep, I found that out in class,” I
told her, setting it down on my bedside table as I entered the
room. “And by the way, you could have jabbed my eye out.”

Yvonne snorted derisively. “Yeah right. You’d
catch it whether I was here or right in front of you, shoving it
into your face.”

I gave her an irritated look.

“So...?” she started. “Who was the guy?” She
folded her arms as she sat down on her bed, pinning me with her
penetrating gaze.

“What guy?” I asked, sincerely confused.

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean. The guy
who drove you home. Twice.” She positioned herself on her bed,
getting comfortable as she leaned back against the pillows, an
expectant expression adorning her features.

“Oh ... yeah. He’s just a guy from school,” I
replied casually, realizing she must have meant Michael. She had
seen him drive me home? But if she had seen me, who else from the
Institution had? I started cleaning up my dresser, trying to look
nonchalant.

“You like him.”

I spun around, nearly dropping the pile of
clothes I had been holding. “How would you even know that?”

Yvonne smiled smugly, having fun at my
expense. “Oh, just the way you guys acted and how you looked when
you walked in.” Her tone was drawn out, tantalizing me with every
word, making sure she could tease me with every ounce of
information she had. Or, more accurately, torture me.

I raised one brow. “Maaaaybe.”

Yvonne sat up straight. “Have you kissed him
yet?”

“No!” I said, startled.

Yvonne threw her head back and laughed as if
my reaction was absurd. “Why not?” She started twirling her short
hair between her fingers.

“Um ... I don’t know,” I replied, feeling my
face growing red. I turned around to continue arranging things on
my dresser.

“It’s fun kissing guys,” she said, her lips
twisting into a knowing smile as she continued to play with her
hair.

My mouth gaped as I turned around and stared
at her. “How would you know?”

“How do you think?”

I sat down on my bed, watching her. The
thought of kissing Michael hadn’t actually occurred to me yet. But
then again, most of the worldly ideas my friends talked about were
quite slow to appear in my mind.

“He was cute,” Yvonne added, watching me
closely.

I looked away, becoming even more
embarrassed. “Kind of.”

“So what’s his name?”

I hesitated, wondering whether I should tell
her or not. “Um ... Michael,” I said slowly, thinking it could do
no harm.

“Hmm.” Yvonne said. “Nice name. Is he in a
lot of your classes?”

I looked away.

“Oh, come on,” Yvonne drawled. “What do you
think I’m gonna do? Murder him? I’m just making conversation.”

I sighed. “Yeah, he’s in a few of my
classes,” I admitted, telling myself that giving her this
information couldn’t do any harm. Just the same, why didn’t I trust
her?

Well, maybe because she was sneaky,
conniving and conceited?

But whatever, it wasn't as if, like she had
pointed out, she was going to perform some horrific crime. She was
just Yvonne.

Yeah. Well, the Yvonne I used to know
wouldn’t have done anything terrible, but she had changed over
time. Her ego had gotten bigger—much bigger, and she seemed ready
to do whatever was necessary to get what she wanted. Her cute and
bright ‘little kid’ smile had faded into one of cynicism. I never
knew what she was thinking, but I could always tell when she was
scheming.

“Hmm,” Yvonne replied, suddenly
uninterested.

The subject seemed dropped so I busied myself
with the dresser. Just as I was color-coding my T-shirts (something
I do a lot in the Institution since activities are rare and
monotonous) Yvonne decided to speak up.

“You know, Drew, you could do better.”

I looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know he’s
human
.”

“Yeah. I noticed,” I replied, starting to
understand what she was getting at.